The Blonde Identity: A Novel

Zoe wanted to laugh—would have laughed—if it hadn’t been for the look on Alex’s face—dark and cold. And the way she held the gun—like it was just another part of her, and it wasn’t going anywhere. Ever.

“Step away from him, Zoe.” Alex’s voice was low and even. “Do it. Now.”

And still Zoe was the moron who asked, “Why?”

Alex looked annoyed. “So I can kill him!”

But Alex was wrong. Alex had to be wrong. “No. Sawyer’s on our side. He’s CIA. He’s . . .” She trailed off as she looked up at the man who wasn’t looking at her because his gaze was locked on Alex, mirroring her every move, like boxers in a ring. Circling. “He’s one of the good guys?”

And, so help her, it sounded like a question. Because he didn’t look like a good guy, not with every part of him on high alert. Muscles tensing, jaw clenching. She shouldn’t have even been able to see it in the moonlight, but Zoe knew him so well by that point. She knew him in the dark. But it was different this time, and it gave her a new kind of tingle, way down in her gut, and one word echoed in her mind: dangerous. Sawyer was dangerous.

“I told you, sweetheart, I’m not all good.” That little boy grin was back on his hot guy face, but his voice was lower and darker, and Zoe thought she was going to be sick.

“Zoe!” Alex was shouting and Zoe was shifting—away from Sawyer and the line of fire and the lies. Mostly, she wanted away from the lies. But her sister just sounded annoyed. “Get out of the way so I can kill him!”

“Come on, Alex,” he called. “Why don’t you put the gun down—”

“No. I need this gun because I’m going to kill you with it.” She sounded like she really wished everyone would pay attention.

“Alex,” Sawyer said with exaggerated patience, “I don’t know what the hell is going on with you, but . . .”

“What’s going on with me?” Alex actually laughed. “He’s a traitor, Zoe. Kozlov turned him. He works for Kozlov. He—”

“Alex! Will you . . .” But Sawyer trailed off as, suddenly, everything changed. The grin slid off his face and his gaze shifted to the highway that snaked through the mountains, a black ribbon rising and falling with the Alps. “Shit!” He swung back to Alex. “Listen, we’ve got about two minutes before all hell breaks loose, and you both need to—”

And then all hell broke loose.

The dark night was suddenly too bright—full of headlights and dome lights springing to life as people charged out of cars. There was shooting and screaming and a lot of (probably Russian) cursing as Alex dove behind the motorcycle and opened fire. Something slammed into Zoe, trapping her between the icy ground and the rock wall and—

Sawyer. His face blocked out the moon, and his weight pressed against her, keeping her down or keeping her safe and, right then, she wasn’t sure of the difference.

“You’re a liar.” She tried to push him off, but his big stupid body was too big and stupid and full of muscles.

“Of course I am. But you have to listen to me. I—”

Alex screamed and fell to the ground. Zoe saw her grip her shoulder and try to shift the gun to her other hand—she tried to keep shooting, but the gun didn’t fire anymore. She was out of ammo. And they were out of time.

“Zoe!” Sawyer shouted, and she stopped fighting. She just looked up into those blue eyes that were now the color of ice. “No matter what happens . . . No matter what, just know . . .”

He traced her cold cheek, staring at her like he was memorizing the curves of her face. It was the same way he’d looked at her in the light of the fire—like he couldn’t believe she was real. Like he couldn’t believe she was there. Like he couldn’t believe she was his. Because she had been his—she had. And, worse, she’d been happy.

And, suddenly, Zoe didn’t know who to trust—the sister she didn’t really remember or the man she didn’t really know.

But she did know Sawyer. Didn’t she? She knew his quirks and his sighs and the ghosts that haunted him and the things that soothed him . . . She knew him. And in that moment she was Team Sawyer; Team There Has to Be a Reasonable Explanation; Team Alex Doesn’t Know What She’s Talking About Because This Guy Is Clearly Amazing. Zoe was Team Happy Ending and would take that foolish, reckless hope to her grave.

She was just getting ready to say so when the shooting stopped.

And Sawyer said, “I’m sorry.”

Those two words . . . she felt them like a blade. They slipped between her ribs and pierced her heart, and she knew she was going to bleed out because she’d been wrong. About him. About them. About everything. And all she could do was lie on the cold ground, listening to the crunch of tires on icy gravel as a new set of headlights sliced through the night—the subtle click of someone opening the back door of a car that was long and black and looked like what you’d drive if you had all your clothes made out of puppies.

When an old man crawled out, Zoe knew immediately who—or what—he was.

Kozlov.

He had probably been massive once, but age had made him smaller and weaker, and now he carried himself like a wild animal who refused to live in a world where he wasn’t the top of the food chain. What time took away in muscle, this man made up for in evil—Zoe could see it in the set of his jaw and the look in his eyes as he snapped, “And?”

She should have been afraid of him. She should have been terrified. But the scariest thing on that mountain was the look on Sawyer’s face as he climbed to his feet. She watched as he grew taller and stronger and darker.

Posture changing. Features shifting. It was like every muscle in his body suddenly morphed into something that was genetically the same but totally different.

She watched Sawyer become his own evil twin, and all Zoe could do was lie on the icy ground, wondering if she was watching him pull on a facade or take one off? All she really knew was that her Sawyer was gone.

He pulled the drive from his pocket and handed it to Kozlov, smirked down at Zoe on the ground. “I told you I could get her to trust me.”

She was wrong, Zoe realized. She was wrong. Her Sawyer had never existed at all.

She was aware, faintly, of Kozlov looking down at her like she was a curiosity—a sideshow. A freak. She felt naked and vulnerable and exposed, but also numb and empty and brittle as a sick smile spread across the old man’s face.

“Bring the traitor,” he said flatly. “Kill the blonde.”

A dozen men lunged for Alex, who was shouting and screaming and fighting. She was fighting so hard that no one seemed to notice the way Sawyer was looking at Zoe, stepping toward Zoe, grabbing Zoe by the arms and pulling her to her feet.

She tried to jerk away but Sawyer was a wall of muscle, pressing forward until she felt the snow-covered ledge against the back of her legs.

“Careful,” he warned. “Do you want to fall down another mountain?”

Somewhere, Alex screamed. “Run, Zoe!” But Zoe was frozen, staring at Sawyer, who had lied. Sawyer, who had schemed. Sawyer, who had broken her in ways that might never, ever mend.

“I was wrong,” she told him. “You’re exactly like your father.”

Then Zoe turned around. And jumped.

Screams followed in her wake, Russian curses and arching searchlights, but Zoe didn’t care about that. She just tried to protect her head as she fell.